Monday, March 31, 2008


Taking humanistic psychology, apparently I am supposed to ask myself "Who am I?" and then, after I answer myself, "Who am I really?" I, of course, have no idea who I am, at all let alone "really" but even before the class started I was writing in my red book of "Things that I have done" which is basically a list of reasons that I am an interesting person, in order to convince myself that I am, in fact, an interesting person some of the time. I started a new list this morning too, in the back of the book titled "Things I want to do." There are only two things on that list so far,
I want to have a jelly bean hunt on easter with my children.
I want to be able to guide a raft down the entire American.
The already finished stuff is much longer. My favorite one isn't really something I've done at all. Not really. When I was in first grade I accidentally walked in to the second grade classroom. They were so old, it seemed impossible that I would ever be that old. I am very excited and feel very accomplished to have lived through second grade.
I wonder if that is who I am. Someone who lived through the second grade. I imagine that that is definitely part of it.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Dear Panama,

I am extremely honored by your letter written at Christmas. I do, absolutely, give a shit. I don't know why I just decided to blog my response to your four magnificent epistles. I think that it is just that I am in a typing/blogging mood. Also in a public, exposing, tell-all sort of mood.

But you're sad so much these days
I don't know what to do
So to try to cheer you up I tell you tales about the men I love
and how it's oh so very hard to choose (beat)
And you tell me that I'm flippant
like the children who put stickers on their binders
you tell them that they're wrong (beat)
Be like me and put them here
Believe me when I tell you that I'm right
My bedstand's built to last
Sometimes I wish that we could go
Back to how it was-
With sunny afternoons and ransom notes
(beat) Oh weren't we funny
With snowcones in abundance
When I had you to myself six hours a day
But now I'm here and you are there, my friend
The stalemate where you won't return my calls

Don't ask to by a lyricist, because the problem with lyrics is that they are never any good. Ever. But these ones came to me this morning, and they are about Tyler (obviously?) They start in the middle of a verse and end in the middle of another verse, but I think that you should probably write some music to go with them and finish it if you like. My vision is a cross between that Moldy Peaches song in Juno and
Which is by Ryan Fitzgerald, esteemed boyfriend of my estranged, S.A.D.-ed friend. But my vision is not necessarily reality.
I am refusing to miss anyone right now. Not Tyler or Chris or Andee or any of them, and to stay with the theme of not missing, I can't miss you either, not actively.
But luckily I have ample opportunity to think about ROADTRIP!! with WES!! which basically makes up for the missing thing. Speaking of which, I got the car! It is the love of my life at the moment, oh yes.
There. That one. In red, like the picture. It is a stick shift, but even with that extra persnickity-ness it is just about the sweetest, most good natured automobile I have ever encountered. And hopefully if my parents don't drive it too much between now and when I get home in June, it will still smell all clean and new-car-y.
I am happy. Straight, solid, happy. Which is surprising considering my standing with all of my old friends from home, but I have found that I just don't care about them at all any more.
The people in Santa Cruz are nicer and more interesting and much less likely to be cruel because I'm me. Apparently sometimes friends aren't really mean to you all the time. Did you know that? I didn't. It's really cool.
But I still don't know what I'm doing this summer. It's a mystery. I just know that I don't want to be in Sacramento for very long. I want to travel around the country and I want to work, but I don't really know when I want to travel or where I will live while I work at an, at this point, unknown job. Makes me long for summer camp.
That is all I can say right now, which seems a sad answer to your wonderful letters. Probably it has something to do with the fact that I can't draw fantastic things on them, or that I don't want to pour out all my weepy emotions into a public forum, even when I am, as I am now, in a public sort of mood.
Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo.

Ramblings on Eating, Wishing and Abusing Pain Medication (From the train yesterday)

It would be so easy to be addicted to pain pills, especially for me, who lives for the placebo aspect of things. If I believe in my heart that something works, it works. I have proven this scientifically enough for me. In middle school, at the tail end of my belief in witches and magic, serious or un-serious as that belief may have been I took on the practice of wishing. I would wish that Mr. Cortez would have a substitute for math that day, and when I seriously wished it it would happen. Almost always, and when it didn't work, well, I obviously forgot to wish, or I hadn't been thinking it hard enough, or maybe there was a greater plan intended for Mr Cortez that day. Actually! Wait! I'm glad he's here because I actually did my homework, which would be wasted on a substitute. Thank you, mysterious un-named but definitely not God power which remembered that fact even when I was busy wishing that Mister Tight-Pants would stay home with the sniffles today.
If I believed in wishes even as a reasonably aged child, it makes perfect sense that I would believe in pain pills now, despite the overwhelming evidence that they are fake fucking sugar pills from hell. My mouth hurts. My teeth throb and ache. And vicodin, good old oxycodone is supposed to remedy that. It is supposed to kill my pain. Kill it dead and send it into the ether or wherever it is that pain goes to die its slow silent death for at least four hours from point of swallowing, give or take twenty minutes for dissolving and working its way into my blood stream and up to my face and the gaping holes where my teeth should be.
I have faith in them. It seems as though the throbbing stops as soon as the big white horse pill disappears from sensation, gets dislodged from my throat and down into my various intestines.
As a child I was told that it takes four hours for food to make its way through the body. For some reason, probably the fact that I was a child, and one prone to fancy at that, I decided that that meant that food takes four hours to make it to the stomach.
This is a very long time, it seemed to me. Four hours, to a young child is an unimaginably long time to make the extremely sort journey to my stomach. How many compartments were there to traverse in the mean time? How many DMV waiting rooms of food processing was I subjecting my sandwich to? It would take me, well, less than a second to move my whole self the distance that the food had to go. Maybe... two feet? Understandably, the food is, by necessity, a lot smaller than I am, and therefore might find the distance more daunting, but even a snail, or a small turtle, both smaller than the sandwich in question and relatively slow moving creatures could move two feet in a manner of minutes, not hours.
But apart from the matter of time that it should take to get from mouth to stomach, the part that concerned me most was, after a few minutes I feel full. And I feel full, not in my brain where the chemical signals that measure food consumption lie, but in my stomach. After a big meal my belly pooches, my pants feel a little tighter, all in the area where I have been led to believe my stomach is located. How can this be? And so I decided, as a nice, believing child should, that my stomach was lying. There was no reason to believe that the Magic School Bus or another like-minded educational television program was misinformed or perhaps that I had misunderstood it myself. No. It was easier to believe that perhaps my mouth had sent a signal to my stomach, or whatever was growing in my midsection, that food was coming. Arrival time estimated: four hours. So you'd better expand in preparation for that. Oh, and let the girl know she's full, wile you're at it.
And so I lived with the idea that my stomach was a tricky liar for many many years. And I believe that the same area of my brain that came to that conclusion, that it was my own body and not the outside information that was lying, allows me to use and love placebos, particularly ones that I honestly believe are working. Say, vicodin. So, why are my teeth still throbbing with pain? Not only did I take a vicodin at six or so, and it being seven fifteen now, it should be in full effect, but I also took an eight hundred milligram ibuprofen twenty minutes ago. Double duty pain control! It should be wiped off the map! Gone to pain purgatory until nearly ten, or, by the ibuprofen standards three in the morning. Logically and medically, I should be pain free until bed time, at which time I will be home where my shiny new bottle of vidocin is, housed in my catch-all drawer next to the antibiotics which I refuse to take and various cigarette and gummi-worm wrappers from days past.
And in my book, which I have read enough of for the day, is a nice little prescription for twenty more! But I will not fill the prescription, not now and not ever. Not even if I finish the fifteen or so pills I have at home. Because I do not want to become addicted to anything. Ever. Particularly not pain pills. No. Not particularly. If I was going to be addicted to anything, I would want it to be pain pills. Clean, easy on the systems, relatively inexpensive. Not smelly like cigarettes or illegal and expensive like coke, or dirty and liable to ruin the life like meth or heroine. In fact, if I wanted an addiction, this is what I would pick.
The only problem I have with them is quite a big one, at least in terms of making pain pills my drug of choice. I do not really notice that they make me feel good. A little giddy, a little talkative and pleased with everything, certainly, but not all that noticeably. The only time I really remember enjoying myself on vicodin more than usual was when I had an ear infection and I called my mother. I talked to her for hours and told her a lot of the things that I would ordinarily keep private, like my concerns over a birth control prescription. A prescription that she did not know I had, or knew that I had any use for, though she may have suspected. I was never very secretive about my birth control. I kept it out on my bathroom counter, most of the time in a little fabric pouch, but sometimes not, and she cleaned my bathroom every week. With a serious boyfriend around all the time it seems suspect that she never noticed or drew any conclusions.
And that night I was feeling good. I was talking and laughing and being happier than I had been in days and days of being sick. But I think that was it. It was not the vicodin making me happy directly, it was simply the fact that it wakes me up a little, and takes away my pain. And for a very tired person in a great amount of bodily pain, having a burst of energy and no more pain is a happy day! That, my friend, is an exceptional night! So it seems pointless to become addicted to the stuff. When I'm not in pain, and pretty awake, it does me no good at all, except as a placebo.
And the effect of pain medication as placebo is a great one. It is taking away my pain! It is making all my pain go away! The pain of rejection from a good looking guy, the pain of a less than perfect grade on an assignment. The pain of a lonely night because everyone else found something to do and someone to do it with and I am too lazy, or too scared or too uncreative to come up with something like that. The pain of the look that one or the other roommates gives me when they realize that I will probably be in the same place when they get back.
The idea of a pill that takes pain away, particularly a really strong one like vicodin, that is very appealing. And for a girl who likes placebos...

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Now this is strange

I just noticed something curious. Now, my parents and I don't really show affection. I don't know if this is my fault or theirs, but I am willing to assert that it's probably all of us. My mother's best friend has mentioned to me that mom is not very affectionate or touchy, and that she sees that in me too. But when I was a kid I personally put a stop to kissing my father goodbye. I was about 12 and I just said "no. I'm done with that." My parents are affectionate with each other of course. They kiss, mostly not in front of me, but I see it, certainly. But not with me, we just simply don't do that whole thing.
A few months ago I drove my father to the airport. When I dropped him off and gave him his bags, he gave me a hug before I left. I was oddly touched. It made my eyes tear up, or if not exactly tear up, but feel that tingling pinch behind my eyes that signals tears are coming.
Tonight, and right now as I type this my eyes did the twinge thing again, before she went upstairs to bed, mom came over and hugged me, even though she was probably going to see me in the morning before I went back to school anyway. That time I seriously almost cried. And I don't know why. I am so independent and they know that, that I don't need their emotional support and I don't expect it. But for some reason these hugs have been really touching me. It's strange. For me, it's strange.

Tired non-vicodin induced rambling

My mouth hurts and that makes me tired. I had my wisdom teeth out on Friday and it was an extremely tiring experience, to the point that I still basically just want to sit around and not do much. The only thing that makes me feel any better is swishing lots of cool water over my poor aching gums and cupping my cheeks in my hands. Oh, and lots of vicodin. Actually, if I keep the pain meds going I don't need the water or the cheek cupping, but eventually I need to stop taking the pills every 4 hours. It's a daunting prospect, but I haven't had one since 1 and it's 8. 8 hours of managing pain on my very own. And it's ok! It really is!
Today I did manage to get out, though. Out of bed and out into the world and looking just a bit better than a "hot mess." To quote all of the girls on Flavor of Love 3 which I wish I didn't watch, but I do. But yes, I did get out today. I shopped a little and went to the Coffee Garden where I ran in to Terry. And the Co-Op, I went there too.
And the reason that I decided to venture instead of simply holing up and not, was that I have a spectacular new car! It's red and pretty and it has a great stereo in it. And when I hit the button on my fancy new key it goes "Beep!" or ever 'Beep! Beep!" depending on whether I'm locking it or not. I love it! Even if it stalls and makes me scared that I am going to be the most hated driver in Sacramento. Because if I was sitting at a stoplight because some stupid girl in her brand new red car couldn't work her stick shift, I'd be pissed too.
So sorry, drivers of Sacramento. Eventually I will figure it out with the shifting and the starting, and I will get plates so I look like less of an ass if I do stall. Sorry very much.

Sunday, March 2, 2008